


Among Daisies

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, aot - Freeform, jeanmarco, snk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pinky promise," Marco says, and locks Pinkies with Jean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among Daisies

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the cruel offspring of [this song](http://youtu.be/pstVCGyaUBM) and my mother's unwillingness to cease making Marco jokes
> 
> Just actually throw me in the garbage 
> 
> What have I done

Jean has never found joy in a particularly nice day. Perhaps he's too young to appreciate the gift of a day without rain, or perhaps it's simply because he has no one to pass the time with. He often finds himself weaving flower crowns out of the daisies that grow in his backyard, but he has no one to give them to, nor does he have someone to make them with him. 

"It's lovely, Jean," his mother always says, and Jean always laughs. 

Jean doesn't like when it's too hot. He's paler than a sheet, as his parents put it, and he burns easily, so when the sun is out, they tell him to stay inside. Jean doesn't really want to, but he does; it's better than spending a week peeling off dead skin, he's decided. 

About a week into July, a new family moves in down the field. They've got a son, Jean hears, and he's never been more excited in his life, save for the time when his parents bought him a full set of colored pencils for his sixth birthday. He spent a week in his room after that, only leaving for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Jean wasn't much of an artist, then, but he still enjoyed the concept of creation and detailed illustration. 

The clouds roll in overnight, and it rains steadily all night, but Jean doesn't mind. His mother tells him to be back by dark, and with that, he's off, sprinting down the hill to the house on the other side of the corn field. The rain makes pitter-patter noises on his small blue umbrella, and his green rain-boots make small sloshing noises in the puddles on the path, but they're all noises that Jean finds comfort in. Jean doesn't find joy in the sunshine or the heat of a midsummer day, but rather the steady hammer of heavy rain on his roof at night.

The walkway to the neighbors' house is inlaid with tiny pebbles that glisten with rain and the pale light of a cloudy midday. There are six flower beds along the side of the path, and there's another box hanging off of what appears to be the kitchen window. Flowers have yet to sprout from any of the beds. 

Jean walks up to the door and knocks, albeit shyly. When he gets no response, he knocks again, this time harder. The mail slot opens, and Jean jumps backward, startled. 

"Who are you?" comes a tiny voice from the other side of the door, and Jean gets down on his knees so he can peek through the mail slot. A warm pair of hazel eyes stare back at him, and he smiles. 

"I'm Jean. I'm your neighbor," Jean exclaims, "can you let me in?" 

The boy on the other side of the door shakes his head. "Stranger danger," he says.

"Can you come outside?" Jean huffs, tapping the toe of his boot on the pavement. 

"It's raining."

"I have an umbrella." 

The mail slot closes, and the door opens to reveal a small boy, no older than Jean. His face and neck are adorned with freckles, and his hair is mussed about, as if he's just woken up. Jean holds out the umbrella. 

"Here. I don't mind the rain." 

The freckled boy shakes his head. "I don't, either." 

Jean closes the umbrella. "You got a name? 'S kinda hard to ask you things if I don't know your name." 

"Marco," the freckled boy says. 

"Here, my mom said to take these to you," Jean says, holding out a slightly damp bag of sugar cookies. 

Marco opens the bag, and his face lights up immediately. "Cookies! Isn't sugar rationed?" 

Jean smiles. "We save it for special occasions." 

Marco doesn't hesitate to take a cookie out of the bag and take a bite of it. Jean can tell he's savoring it; sugar isn't cheap, nor is it easy to come by. Neither of them would likely have sugar again for a very long time. 

"This is really good," Marco hums, between bites. His cheeks puff out a little as he chews. 

"You look like a chipmunk," Jean giggles. Marco frowns and offers a cookie for Jean, but Jean only shakes his head. "They're for your family, Marco." 

"You're my next-door neighbor, 's gotta count for something," Marco shrugs, shoving the cookie into Jean's mouth before he can protest. "How old 're you?" 

"Eight," Jean sighs. "You?" 

"Eight and one half." 

"Is the one half really important?" Jean raises an eyebrow and closes his umbrella. "Like, does it really matter?" 

"Probably not," Marco shrugs, again. 

"You wanna take a walk or somethin'?" 

Marco nods. 

It's well into the afternoon by the time they get back to Marco's house, and they've covered everything they've seen fit to talk about, from the reason Marco's parents' flowers haven't sprouted yet, to the frequency of rainfall in the area. The rain has long since stopped, and now everything in sight glistens with dew. The entire landscape has taken on a crystalline reflectivity, and that's something Jean _does_ appreciate. Maybe he'll paint it later. 

"Thanks for the cookies, and the walk," Marco waves, "see you tomorrow," and closes the door behind himself. Jean walks back over the field to his house, and he thinks the sun isn't all that bad, anymore, because he's made a friend. 

His mother is home making dinner when he walks through the door, which is funny, because she's supposed to be in town, shopping. She must have finished up early, Jean thinks, and he goes up to his room in the loft. He can see Marco's house from the little window above his bed, and that makes him smile. Jean wonders if Marco has a loft in his house, too. Jean opens the window and the breeze whooshes into his room, knocking a piece of paper off of the wall, and blowing several more off of Jean's desk. He leans out the window and stares at Marco's house. He wonders if he's being creepy. 

—

The next day, it's hot and unpleasantly sunny, but Jean doesn't mind the heat as he runs down the field to Marco's house. By the time he's there, there's grass all over his clothing and in his hair, but he knocks on the door anyway. The mail slot opens, again, and Marco peeks out. "Jean!" He exclaims, and his grin is evident in the tone of his voice. He opens the door, runs out to Jean, and hugs him. 

"I can see your house from my loft window!" Marco says, releasing Jean from his arms. "Your house is so pretty! You have so many flowers!" 

Jean smiles. "I know, we have too many," he says, and then his face lights up even more. "We can go pick some, and then we can plant them in your flower beds!" 

Marco nods enthusiastically. "That's a really good idea!" 

"Race you there!" 

Marco is quicker that Jean as far as physical ability goes; Jean loses the race by at least ten feet, even after calling out, 'no fair!' causing Marco to slow to a jog. Marco just laughs and wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Jean falls face first on the grass and groans. 

"I don't have anybody to race, like, ever," Marco pants, sitting down next to Jean.

"Me neither." Jean gets up and unlocks the shed, pulling out a few flowerpots and two little shovels. He hands one of the shovels to Marco. "Here you go."

Marco stares at the shovel. "Won't this hurt the plant?" 

Jean shakes his head. "You gotta be careful. Watch." 

Marco's eyes don't leave Jean's hands as he gently begins to dig up a cluster of tulips. Jean's motions are deft and practiced, and he doesn't fumble with the flowers as he transports them to the clay pots. He's clearly done this before. Jean pats down the soil with his palm, and places the pot down next to him. 

"You want some daffodils?" Jean asks, standing up. Marco nods. He doesn't want to talk, he just wants to watch Jean re-plant more flowers. So that's what he does. Jean ends up planting most of the flowers in the pots, and by the time he's finished, there are four in total. There's one pot left, though, and Marco glances around Jean's garden for one more flower. A red and black one catches his eye, and he crosses the garden to where it sprouts. The red blossom bends and dances in the gentle breeze. 

"That's a poppy, do you want that one?" Jean walks up next to Marco. "Mum told me to get rid of that one, she says it sticks out like a sore thumb in this garden." 

"Why? 'S pretty," Marco says, surprised. 

Jean shrugs and begins to dig up the poppy. "Dunno. Maybe she's not a fan of the color red." He places the flower in the pot and tosses more dirt in on top of it. "It's a shame though, this one's my favorite." 

Marco's eyes widen, and he waves his hands in an attempt of denial. "I couldn't possibly—" 

"You gotta take good care of it." Jean hands the pot to Marco. 

Marco takes the pot, reluctantly. "You sure?" 

"Yeah, I'm sure." 

They walk back to Marco's house slowly. Jean carries three of the pots and Marco carries two. Marco had offered to carry the three, but Jean insisted on carrying the extra flower. When they finally set down the pots, Marco runs inside and gets both of them mint water. The two sit down on the grass, basking in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Marco lays down on the grass and stares up at the sky. 

"That cloud looks like a dog." He points to a cloud in the sky.

Jean doesn't know which cloud he's talking about, because there are so many, but he just laughs and says, "yeah, it kinda does." Jean points to a different cloud. "That one looks like a girl." 

"Girls are weird," Marco sticks out his tongue. 

"Yeah," Jean agrees. 

Marco points out two more clouds, and Jean points out three. Neither of them really know what the other is pointing to, but they just go along with it, and when Jean says he sees a frog in the sky, Marco doesn't doubt that he does. By the time they decide to plant the flowers, the sun begins to set, and Jean thinks he should be getting home. 

"Let's plant the flowers, okay?" Jean stretches his arms out in front of him and stands up, grabbing the pot with the daffodils in it. 

"My mom should be home soon, maybe she can help us." Marco stands up and stretches, too. 

The two of them work together to relocate the flowers; Marco digs where they're going to plant the flowers, and Jean takes them out of the pots and puts them into the flower beds. When they're done with the tulips, Jean reaches for the poppy, but Marco stops him. 

"Wait, I wanna put that one in my room," he says. 

Jean nods. "I gotta go home, enjoy the flowers." 

Marco smiles. "I will." 

Jean sprints up the steepest part of the hill on his way home. He makes it his goal to beat Marco at a race, sometime, but he doesn't think he'll ever do it. He can try. 

"I got rid of the poppy in the garden," Jean tells his mother during dinner. His father looks up from his plate of mashed potatoes and roast duck and raises an eyebrow. 

"I thought you liked that flower, Jean," his mother sighs, "What did you do with it?" 

"I gave it to Marco." Jean shoves a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. 

"Who's Marco?" His father asks, sipping at his water. 

"Our neighbor!" Jean groans. He thought his parents knew this, they'd talked about the new neighbors weeks before they actually moved in. "He's eight and a half years old." 

"Eight and a half, huh?" His mother says, and Jean nods enthusiastically. "Eat your potatoes so you can be eight and a half years old."

Jean eats his potatoes because he wants to be eight and a half years old, and because he likes mashed potatoes. His mother uses the same prompt to get him to go to bed. When he's sure his parents are asleep, he carefully opens the window above his headboard and looks down at Marco's house. He waves, and wishes Marco could see. 

—

It's cloudy and cool the next day, and the sun shines through the clouds occasionally. It's nice by Jean's standards, but Marco's mother begs to differ when he comes over to ask Marco to race. Instead, she invites Jean inside. Marco's house is pleasantly furnished, and everything is arranged in an appealing and orderly fashion. 

"Marco's told me a lot about you, Jean," she smiles and sets an iron kettle on the stove. "Thank you for the flowers, my the way, they look lovely." 

Marco suddenly comes running down the stairs. "Mum, have you seen my—" he catches sight of Jean sitting at the kitchen table and his face lights up with the intensity and joy of a hundred brilliant stars. The freckles on his face only add to the image, Jean thinks. They're like…skin stars. "Jean!" He shouts, running around the table to give Jean a hug.

"Hi, Marco," Jean laughs, bracing himself against the table so he doesn't fall off of the chair he's sitting in. 

Marco takes Jean's hand in his and drags him out of the chair. "Come on, you gotta see this thing I did!" Jean nearly trips up the stairs because Marco won't let his hand go. He's roughly yanked into Marco's room and his attention is directed to the window on the far wall. 

A flower box hangs from the windowsill, and a single poppy grows in the rich soil. Jean can see his house in the distance, and it's a much more beautiful view than Jean has. The land stretches out for miles in every direction. 

Jean gasps. "Is that—"

"Wall Rose, yeah!" Marco chirps. "The view here is incredible." 

Jean can't believe what he's seeing. All this time, he'd never been able to see above the hill. All this time, he'd been missing out on _this_. 

" _gods_ ," Jean breathes, and he props his chin up with his hands on the windowsill. Marco pulls up a piano bench and sits down on it. Jean sits down next to him. 

"Can I lean on your shoulder?" Marco asks. It's a strange question, Jean thinks, but he decides he doesn't mind at all. 

"Yeah, go ahead," Jean says, still transfixed by Wall Rose in the distance. 

Marco rests his head on Jean's shoulder and sighs. "You should see it when the sun sets." 

"Can I stay to watch?" 

"Yeah," Marco whispers. "Tomorrow, if it's not so cloudy." 

Jean hopes it isn't cloudy. 

—

The next day is sunny and clear, and there isn't a cloud in the sky, but Jean stays inside because he's almost certain he'll burn in this weather. He is, however, willing to make the short journey down the hill to Marco's house.

Marco places an ace down on the table, and Jean groans. Marco takes another piece of candy from the bag Jean brought and pops it in his mouth. 

"You're gonna have to win soon, or all the candy is gonna be gone," Marco laughs, picking up the cards and shuffling them again. 

"It's not my fault I suck at whatever game this is," Jean whines, gazing longingly at the bag of mints. 

"'s called war," Marco says, and splits the deck in half. He gives one half to Jean. "Here." Jean loses that round, too, and the next. Finally, Marco slides the bag of candy over to where Jean sits at the table. "Here, it's no fun if you can't have any, too." 

Jean takes a mint from the bag and tosses it in his mouth. "Thanks." 

"Mmhm," Marco hums. He picks up the cards and puts them back into their box. "Whaddya wanna do, now?" He asks, placing the box back on the shelf. Jean shrugs. There isn't much to do. 

"We could play hide and seek," Marco suggests, and Jean nods. They decide that the kitchen table is base, and that neither one of them is allowed to hide outside. 

Marco hides first, in the washroom, in the cabinet beneath the sink. Jean looks everywhere he can think of, and he's almost certain he's checked everywhere. He's looked in Marco's room, and he knows Marco wouldn't hide in his parent's room (that was another rule). Jean finally stumbles into Marco's room again, and plops down onto the floor. "I give up," he groans, and his head hits the floor with a soft _thud_. 

A poster on the wall catches his eye. No, it's not a poster; it's hand-drawn. A green unicorn on a grey shield stares back at him from the wall. Despite his exhaustion, Jean stands up and walks over to where the drawing is stuck to the wall with four metal thumbtacks. _Did Marco do this?_ He wonders. 

"Were you even looking for me?" Jean whips around, dizzying himself in the process. Marco waves from the doorway. "I was hiding in the washroom." 

Jean frowns. "I checked there!" 

"Not well enough, I guess," Marco giggles. 

Jean points at the poster. "Military police?" 

"Yeah," Marco smiles, "I wanna join 'em. When I get older." 

Jean has never considered any branch of the military. He thinks it's terrifying, just judging from what his father's told him. "Aren't you scared?" 

Marco shrugs. "A little bit." 

"Aren't you worried that titans will eat you?" 

Marco just laughs. "The Military Police don't fight titans, silly." He ruffles Jean's hair, and Jean decides he doesn't like his hair being ruffled. It makes him feel even more like a little kid. 

"Oh my god," Jean gasps. "Oh, my god, look!" 

Marco makes a face. "What? What is it?" 

"You have a new freckle!" Jean pokes Marco's nose and laughs. 

Marco crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. "That one was there yesterday!" 

Jean pokes Marco's cheek. "So was that one," he giggles, "and that one, too." 

"They were all there yesterday, you dummy," Marco huffs, crossing his arms. 

Jean shakes his head. "That one wasn't." 

"Whatever you say, Jean."

The two eventually get hungry and go downstairs, where Marco's mother has placed two cups of apple cider on the table. Jean's never had apple cider before, and he decides that he kind of likes the way that the cool liquid runs down his throat, and he thinks the way the acidity burns his chapped lips is well worth the taste. It's savory and unique in its own way, though Marco explains that it's not a fancy or sophisticated drink in any way. Jean doesn't want to believe it. 

Shortly after they finish their cider, Marco's mother starts to make a dinner of buttered bread and vegetables while Jean and Marco play three more rounds of war on the sitting room carpet. Marco wins all three rounds, but he still gives the peppermints he's won to Jean, and he can only hope Jean doesn't spoil his dinner. After they're fed they race up the stairs to Marco's bedroom and set the piano down by the windowsill. They assume the same position as yesterday; Jean rests his head in his arms, and Marco leans against his shoulder. 

_It's incredible how something so simple can be so beautiful_ , Jean thinks. The sunset is delicate and majestic in a way that he can't quite put into words. The colors mix together unevenly like paint on a palette; the blues and pinks and oranges mix together in a way that's truly captivating both visually and mentally. The colors are easy on the eye. It's calm. They fall asleep like that. 

—

Jean wakes up to a loud _crack_ like thunder, only louder. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and gazes outside the open window, itching a mosquito bite that's appeared on his arm. Nothing seems amiss, at first. The sun peeks above Rose, and the horizon is a pale teal tinged with the orange of early morning. 

_Something is wrong, he thinks. Something is very wrong._

Jean's heart pounds, heavy in his chest, and he tries to swallow his fear. Marco sleeps soundly beside him, and all is well, save for the anxiousness that fills Jean's body and the ringing in his ears. He can still hear the jolt, loud and clear, and he knows he wasn't imagining it. Eventually, drowsiness outweighs anxiety, and Jean falls into a troubled sleep. 

"Jean," Marco whispers, shaking Jean awake. "Jean, wake up." 

Jean rubs his eyes. "What? What time's it?" 

Marco's tone is panicked and his voice comes in broken, choppy syllables. "Something's wrong, Jean." Jean jolts upward and nearly hits his head on the window frame. "Mum's all in a panic, I don't know what to do." Jean stares at Marco in disbelief, and he swears he sees tears in Marco's hazel eyes. The look doesn't suit him at all, as it doesn't suit most, but the way Marco's eyes no longer shine brightly scares Jean to no end. 

"What happened?" Jean asks, glancing out of the window instinctively. 

Marco sniffles. "She said something about Maria. About Shiganshina." 

Jean shakes his head and wraps his arms around Marco. "It's probably nothing. The walls have stood tall for 100 years, they're not gonna stop today." The words fall from his lips effortlessly, though he isn't sure they're true, himself. He wants them to be true, but he's almost certain they're not. There's a knock at the door below that makes both of them jump. 

Jean's mother is in a panic, too, and she's in more of a rush than she should be as she ushers Jean out the door. Jean waves goodbye to Marco, but Marco isn't paying attention. He stares blankly at the ground, his face devoid of emotion, and his body does nothing to indicate what he's thinking. Jean hates it. He wants to hug Marco again, but the door closes between them before he can go back. 

—

It rains for days after that, and Jean likes to think that the sky is sad because he hasn't seen Marco in a while. Jean's mother and father keep putting things into crates, and he doesn't like that one bit. He has a feeling he knows what they're doing, but he doesn't want to admit it. He doesn't want to think that they could possibly be moving, and he doesn't want to think about why. He tries to come up with as many possible reasons as he can, but none of them make sense, and the theories eventually make his head hurt, so he stops thinking. 

Instead of thinking, he makes flower circlets. He makes one out of daisies, and two out of the clovers that grow among his mother's basil plants. 

The next day, the steady beat of rain evolves into a relentless downpour that combines with thunder and lightning. The thunder reminds Jean of the loud noise he heard before. The memory makes his chest compress excruciatingly, and he curls up in a ball on the floor of his room. Sob after sob wracks his body, and he wishes he's with Marco. He wishes he hadn't heard the sound.

Jean's possessions are packed up neatly the next day. He still doesn't have a reason or an explanation as to why his family has decided to move so suddenly, and when he asks, his mother only shakes her head. That night, Jean decides he _has_ to see Marco one more time. He can't just leave like this, it feels wrong and cruel. Once he's sure both his parents have fallen asleep, he climbs down the ladder to the loft and pads across the kitchen to the back door and pushes it open. 

The rain is cold and it stings Jean's face when he closes the door behind him. The sodden ground is soft and squishes beneath his feet as he runs down the hill. The rain bites at his pale cheeks and his tiny nose, but he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel the sharp pebble he treads over, and he doesn't feel the way it bites into his heel. The only thing Jean can think about is seeing Marco. He reaches the house and he's at a loss for what to do. There aren't any lights on, and the rain has begun to soak him to the bone. Jean begins to shiver; he clutches his arms and rubs at them furiously. 

He paces back and forth, and finally the stabbing pain in his heel hits him like a ton of bricks. He dislodges the pebble from his heel, and it's followed by a weak trickle of blood. Jean ignores the dull throb of the wound and throws the pebble at Marco's window with all the strength he can muster. The rock hits the window with a loud _clank_ , and Jean hopes it's enough to wake Marco up. 

The mere thirty seconds that pass feel like forever, and Jean is close to tears. He could pick up another pebble, yet he doesn't want to risk shattering the window, or injuring Marco. Jean falls to his knees and he can't stop the sob that works its way from his vocal chords. He can't stop the tears that mix with the steady pour of rain over his face. 

"Jean?" Comes Marco's voice, and suddenly he's there, and he's awake, and he's real, and Jean wants to hug him, so he does, and Marco doesn't care that he's soaking wet, he doesn't care that Jean is sobbing into his shoulder, he's just relieved that Jean is here, and he's okay. "Jean, what happened?" 

Jean balls his fists full of Marco's pajama shirt and sniffs. "We're moving. My family is moving to Trost," he chokes. "Tomorrow." Marco doesn't cry. He doesn't react. He simply takes Jean's hand in his and walks him over to the back porch. 

They sit there for a while, unmoving. Neither one of them wants to break the silence that's formed. Jean finds it comforting, but he doesn't know why. He doesn't know why Marco's hand is in his, and he doesn't know why his head is resting on Marco's shoulder. He's not sure why he's so upset about leaving. He wants to know why the thought of moving to someplace far away from Marco makes his chest ache excruciatingly. He wants to know why he's never made a friend like this in the past. 

"Send me letters," Marco whispers, "that way you won't forget." 

Jean sniffs. "I'll send you letters every day. Two every day." 

Marco giggles. "That's a little much. How about once a week?" 

"Yeah. Once a week," Jean agrees. 

"Seven years, and then we can join the Military Police, okay?" Marco squeezes Jean's hand.

"Okay," Jean nods, "pinky promise." 

"Pinky promise," Marco says, and locks pinkies with Jean. 

Jean reaches into his pocket and pulls out the daisy circlet. The blossoms are wilted and they've begun to shrivel up and dehydrate. Jean's chest tightens and he feels like he's going to cry, again. Marco glances down at the ring of flowers in Jean's hand, and he smiles. 

"Did you make that?" He asks, as if it's not obvious. 

Jean nods, tears in his eyes. "The flowers died, I'm sorry, Marco, I—" 

Marco takes the circlet and places it atop his head. Jean's eyes widen in surprise, and the tightness in his chest gives way to an explosion of joy—one that he hasn't felt since he met Marco. He grins, and the gesture feels awkward. Tears are still beading at the corners of his eyes. 

"It's okay, Jean. I promise," Marco whispers. "This isn't goodbye, and this isn't the end." Marco stands up, and helps Jean to his feet. "You have to go back to your house, right now, promise?" 

Jean nods. "I promise." The moment the words escape his lips, Marco wraps his arms around Jean and holds him tightly to his chest. "You're gonna do this," Marco whispers. "I'm gonna do this." For a moment, Jean has no idea what Marco could mean by the statement, but the question dies on his tongue when Marco presses his lips to Jean's forehead. He doesn't linger, and it's nothing more than a chaste kiss, but it makes Jean's face glow red. 

Marco nudges Jean off of the porch. "See you soon, Jean." 

Jean doesn't run back to his house. He's too worried that the faint recollection of Marco's lips on his forehead will disappear. He's worried he'll forget about the expanse of freckles adorning every inch of Marco's face and arms. He's worried he'll forget the golden-brown of Marco's eyes, so he walks slow, because he wants to remember every living, breathing detail of what could've been their final moments together. 

—

He doesn't forget. Despite what he's told Marco, Jean writes letters twice a week. Marco responds after the second letter, every week, without fail. The letters aren't long, most of the time, but each letter still holds something new, and Jean never gets over the childish excitement when there's a new letter in the mailbox every Saturday morning. 

Jean's parents eventually find it fit to explain why they've moved, and the moment they arrive in the city Jean practically figures it out on his own. Residents from Maria are _everywhere_ , and Jean remembers that his cousins used to live on the eastern side of the wall. He deduces that his parents moved here not only because it's more convenient, but because it's better for business. Jean thinks it's selfish that his parents would move here for business, simply because thousands of people were forced to abandon everything they'd ever known, but he doesn't protest, because he knows it's not his place. 

Jean doesn't sleep well anymore. Only when he's gone days without a good nights' rest does he fall deep into the throes of nightmarish slumber. The chatter of the city doesn't stop after the sun sets. If anything, the din only grows louder and louder. Supposedly, there's more to do in the city at night. Jean doesn't know what could possibly keep people up into the ungodly hours of the morning, all he knows is that the slightest noise causes him to jolt awake, and he's jumpier than ever. 

Marco sends him two letters in one day, or perhaps they just happened to arrive on the same day. 

_"One year."_ Reads the first, and Jean smiles. Marco's sent him a letter on this day every year. It's the day Jean left, and the day that they'll both enlist in the military. Jean opens the second letter and sits down on the sidewalk so he can read it. It's two pages long. 

_"Hi, again._

_I told my parents about the whole Military thing. They didn't seem entirely pleased, and they didn't seem upset, either, I think they find something admirable in me wanting to go off and defend the safety of the people and stuff. I think it would've been worse if I'd wanted to join the Survey Corps, but I don't, so that isn't a problem. My mother took it worse than my father, because I think that's what she thought I was hinting at, at first. I just kinda freaked out and told her that 'no, I want to join the military police, mum," but she wouldn't have any of it, y'know? She went ballistic, kind of like when Maria fell. It feels kind of wrong to leave her like this, especially with my dad not being around as much, but this is really what I want to do, yeah? I eventually got her to calm down, and if told her that the Military Police don't fight titans. Kind of like when you first saw the poster on my wall. I remember the look on your face, too, you were so ecstatic, you thought it was the coolest thing in the whole world. _

_I hope you still think it's the coolest thing in the world. I kinda hope you still think I'm cool. I don't think I'm cool. I don't really know if I've changed much, I mean, I got a haircut, but I've still got the freckles, and I think there are new ones, but I'm not quite sure because I can't really count them all by myself. _

_I still can't believe it's been six years. It feels like it's been a hundred. See you soon. :)_

_-Marco_

_P.S. I still have the flower crown thing it's hanging up on my wall."_

—

The days of the following year passed by slower than any year before. The six years prior felt like something of a blur. Jean spent most of his spare time filling out forms and papers for the military training, and he suddenly realizes what it's like to have a reason to be up and about extremely late, or extremely early, depending on how you look at it. 

He keeps a calendar. With every new day, another black X appears on another square. Days turn to months, and the months from a year at an agonizingly slow pace. When August rolls around, he feels like a child on Christmas.

—

His uniform smells like new leather and freshly woven cotton, and the maneuver gear straps don't sit quite right on his hips, but he doesn't care because he's made it, and he'll get to see Marco again. When, he doesn't know, but the guarantee is material, and he knows they'll meet eventually.

Only when they're standing at attention and expected to remain silent unless prompted to speak does Jean catch a glimpse of the freckled face he's missed so much. Only when his head pulses excruciatingly in the aftermath of a punch to the forehead does Jean pick him out of the crowd. Marco stands up straight, eyes downcast and determined. He gives his name, motive, and hometown when prompted. 

"Marco Bodt, Sir," he says, his tone unwavering. "From Jinae." 

"And why are you here?"

"I'm here to offer my service to the king." And that's that. They aren't given another opportunity to speak until after training. Jean already has a bone to pick with a few of the other trainees, especially some kid named Eren Jaeger. There's something about him that simply pisses Jean off to no end, and it's one of those things that he simply can't explain. Jean sits on the porch railing of the mess hall, and he wonders who he's been roomed with. He swears if it's Eren he's going to have a fit. 

Someone sits down next to Jean, but he doesn't look up. He's too busy picking a splinter out of his thumb. "I swear to god, Jaeger—" 

Jean's words dissolve in his mouth, and he unclenches his fist as he turns and comes face-to-face with Marco. 

"Hello," Marco smiles. 

Jean's not sure whether it's more of a pounce or a hug, but the next thing he knows he's in Marco's arms, and he'd be damned if he hadn't missed this. "Seven years is a long time," he says, and it was. 

It really was. 

—

The two are practically inseparable in their free time. Jean did not, in fact, bunk with Eren, he bunks with Marco, surprisingly enough. The two of them eventually figure out how to get up on the roof of the barracks, and it's the best view Jean has had in a while. He can't see Rose, but he can still see the horizon on the cityscape. He often watches the carts carry away trainees who want to go home, and Marco makes him promise not to leave. Jean promises. 

It's hard, sometimes. Jean's worked to the breaking point. Marco is, too, and Jean worries that Marco will leave, because he never promised that he wouldn't leave. Marco reassures Jean that he won't leave, and despite how much he trusts Marco, he has trouble believing it when he tells Jean that he's never had thoughts about leaving. Jean tells Marco that he has, and Marco doesn't seem hurt by that fact. The physical training is both mentally and physically exhausting, and Jean isn't surprised that so many trainees have already left. 

Sometimes the temptation is too great. He's been told how awful the maneuver gear is, and how painful it is, at first. It's painful, yes, but Jean is somehow adept at using the gear itself, though he's not sure why. Once the persistent blister of the straps gives way, the pain goes away, and keeping silent while flying through the air is no longer something of a nightmarish conjuring of willpower. 

—

Three years are nothing compared to the seven he's had to endure without Marco. Now that Marco is almost constantly beside him, he feels more at ease than he has in months, years even, but the days creep closer and closer to graduation, and Jean grows more anxious with each passing day. He hopes both of them make it into the top ten, and that's really all he can do now, is hope. Nearly three years have passed, and if there was improvement to be made, it was too late. 

Marco tosses Jean an apple, and Jean jolts out of his daze. "Don't fall off of the roof, now," he laughs. 

"Wouldn't that be a shame," Jean says, "we're almost there." 

Marco smiles and pulls his knees in to his chest. "Yeah, we are. Can you believe it?" 

"No, I thought I was going to leave during the first week." 

"Me too." 

Jean doesn't reply. This is new. He supposes Marco had his reasons for not voicing his complaints. "I'm glad you didn't," Jean mutters. "I'm glad I didn't." 

Jean finds it comical how little catching up he and Marco have to do. Compared to a lifetime, seven years is nothing, but it's enough time to fall behind on what's happening. Despite this, it feels like neither of them have missed a beat regarding the other's experience during those seven years. Marco has nothing more to ask Jean, and Jean has nothing more to ask Marco. 

"Still wanna join the military police?" Marco asks, like he doesn't know, like he doesn't know that Jean is _terrified_ of the mere _thought_ of titans. Jean looks at Marco with a look he can only hope screams 'are you serious?', but Marco doesn't laugh. "I'm serious." 

Jean nearly spits out his apple. "Whaddya mean, you're serious?" His eyes widen, and he stares at Marco like he's grown a second head. "What the hell, Marco?" 

"I mean, what if we don't get into the top ten? Where will you go, then?" 

Jean remains frozen. His face twists into a mixture of shock and confusion. "I—I don't know, Marco, I—" 

Marco shakes his head. "Nah, that's dumb, forget I said that. We'll make it." Jean punches Marco in the shoulder. "Ow! Jean, what?" 

"That's not funny, Marco," Jean murmurs, taking another bite of his apple. "I don't know where I'd go if I wasn't in the top ten." 

"You'll be fine. You're really good at the maneuver gear stuff." 

—

Jean is apparently good enough at maneuvering to earn him sixth place. Marco follows him in seventh, and Jean realizes he's finally beat Marco at something. It feels different, he thinks. It feels different than finally beating Marco in a race up the hill, and it feels different than beating Marco to the end of the maneuver courses that have been set up for them. He's not sure it's a good kind of different, and he's not sure if he likes it or not. This isn't victory—it's survival of the fittest. It's a system to tell you whether you'll live or die, and those most fit for survival have the choice of whether to live or die. The rest are left for dead. If you don't join the Garrison or the Military police, you're screwed, Jean thinks. The Survey Corps is a death sentence; it's suicide. 

—

The day after graduation, they're forced to preform maintenance and performance checkups to the equipment on the wall. The wind whips about violently, and Jean wonders if anyone's ever been blown off of the wall. The thought makes him cringe. When they're almost done with maintenance, Jean freezes. He can swear he hears shouting from further down the wall, but he's not sure. He sets down the crate of ammunition he's carrying and looks upward.

There's an earsplitting _crack_ , and the wind whips around so hard that Jean really does fall off of the wall. He panics, and screams, and his fingers fumble for the triggers on his maneuver gear, but his fingers fall short, and he can't get a solid grip on the blades— 

Somewhere along the line, Jean does get ahold of the triggers. His ears are ringing and his head pulses with the intensity of a blow to the side of his face. His head tilts backward, and he sort of hopes he's dead, because everything hurts. The sun doesn't shine down onto Trost, and there's a telltale shadow that's cast over the city. 

There's a loud crash, like cannon fire, and the wall shakes. Debris and dust fall from the sky like some kind of sick, twisted rain. There's another crash, and Jean doesn't have to look down to know what's happened, but he does. The sun shines through the gaping hole in wall Rose, and Jean's gut twists in panic. 

The streets are chaotic, nothing's going right, everything is going wrong. He's supposed to be on his way to Sina by now, and so is Marco. They're not supposed to be fighting titans. This wasn't supposed to happen. Eren's dead, and so is the rest of his squad. Armin remains, unable to speak, and unable to move. He's a mindless vessel at this point. The shock is too much. The shock is too much for a lot of the trainees. Those who survive this day will not forget.

Jean's mind swims, he's running out of fuel, both physically and for the maneuver gear, and he wants to fall; it feels like he's falling. His gear hiccups, and he really is falling. Jean hits the ground with a loud _thud_ , and the impact knocks the wind out of him. He scrambles to his feet, and his boots slip on the stone of the street. he's an unsteady mess. 

"Jean!" Marco shouts, somewhere to his left, and he can't pinpoint where his voice is coming from at all. Jean's head spins, and he feels like he's falling all over again. 

He barely makes it to the supply building. All of them barely make it to the supply building. The supply troops are hiding under the desks in the study, and Jean is furious beyond any measure, and without realizing it, he's about to punch someone. Marco catches his fist, and his grip is like iron. Jean doesn't move. 

Armin devises a strategy to get down into the supply room below. It works, as Jean expects it to; Armin is a genius in every sense of the word. Marco's finger is Shaking on the trigger of the dusty rifle he's been given. He doesn't know if the thing will even work, and he doesn't know whether or not the rifle will backfire. His entire body quakes in fear, and he looks up and locks eyes with Jean up in the rafters. He doesn't remember shouting fire, he only remembers how the room is suddenly filled with the harsh sound of gunfire. 

Each of the six trainees in the rafters takes down their titan with exemplary form, save for Sasha and Connie. Sasha misses. Connie loses his grip on one of the swords. The two are a mess, and Jean wonders how they even managed to make it into the top ten. Mikasa takes down Sasha's titan, and Annie effortlessly brings down Connie's. 

Everyone refills their fuel and reloads their blades, but it's not yet over.

—

The fighting goes on for days afterward. Somehow, Eren is a titan. Somehow, he hasn't been ripped limb from limb like Armin had described. Somehow, he's alive, and somehow, he's still fighting for humanity. It's a struggle, it really is, and Jean doesn't think he'll make it. He doesn't think anyone is going to make it, but his thoughts die before they can be voiced. Eren sets down (it's more of a throw, really) the boulder, forming a blockade in Trost's wall, and Humanity has taken back territory from the titans for the first time. The cannon fire doesn't stop for the next day, and it carries on into the day after that. 

—

He's forgotten.

Ash and dust fall from the sky like rain. It sticks to everything, and forms a thin layer of grey matter everywhere it lands. The ground is broken and cracked in places, and some roads are impossible to enter because the damage is so horrid. Jean hasn't eaten in a day, and he feels as if he's going to throw up, despite that fact. Jean wonders why he hasn't seen Marco around. His heart grows heavy with the possibilities, and he doesn't want to believe the one that's staring him in the face. He doesn't want to think it could possibly be true. 

Theory becomes fact as he rounds the corner. He wants to scream, but everything feels heavy. His legs feel heavy, and his arms feel heavy. Jean feels like he's going to fall over. He falls to his knees, and it hurts. The tears are falling from his eyes before he can even look up. He knows it's him, and he knows he's gone. He doesn't want to admit that to himself, he doesn't want to accept it. The weight of the situation is too much for him. Jean clenches his fists and unclenches them ten times over, until he can see the red, angry half moons from his fingernails etched into his skin. They fade, and Jean curls into a ball in the middle of the street. 

_Marco Bodt is dead_ , his mind screams, but he doesn't listen. 

—

Jean joins the survey corps. He figures he might as well be of as much use to humanity as he possibly can be. He doesn't want Marco to be disappointed in him. Months pass, but they feel like days. Time speeds by like it's never sped by before. 

_Time goes on_ , Jean realizes. 

He moves on, slowly, but he never forgets. 

He doesn't forget the freckled boy with the hazel eyes and the toothy grin. He doesn't forget the days before Shiganshina fell. Jean doesn't forget Marco's embrace, and he doesn't forget his earthy scent, or his hearty laugh. 

He doesn't forget the day before he left, when Marco placed the flower circlet atop his messy brown hair and kissed Jean for the first and last time. 

Part of him wants to forget, but he wills himself to hold tight to what he has. 

It's all he has left.

**Author's Note:**

> shrugs..


End file.
